Forced Hand
by Shazzman
Summary: Voldemort is back, and thirsty for revenge upon The Boy Who Lived. But how does he get to him without anyone realising what he is doing? And how would an old, lowly caretaker squib help him in his quest?
1. Default Chapter

FORCED HAND

Chapter 1

****

Hissing, spitting noises filled the air. Anyone who was present to hear the strange noises might have had the thought, _"Snakes. This is how snakes talk."_

The chamber was dark. The only light came from two torches, sunken into the crumbling stone walls, each emitting an unholy, reddish flame. The meagre light could not dispel the pools of darkness that seemed to writhe and shimmer in the corners, as if they harboured the creatures of nightmares. A large throne-like edifice adorned the centre. The edifice gleamed dully in the near dark, as though luminescent. Upon closer inspection, one would see the true nature of the materials that comprised it.

 Bones. A multitude of human bones. Melded together in an obscene, horrible, beautiful meshwork. Femurs intertwined for the chair-legs, vertebrae fused together for the back and the seat, large shoulder-blades for the headrest. Tibulas, fibulas for the armrests. All so tightly fit that they seemed to have grown from each other, rather than having been placed there. Smaller bones from feet, hands and ribcages adorned the throne like ornaments. The bones of enemies, Muggle and wizard alike. 

Seated in this organic nightmare was a towering figure, dressed in voluminous, midnight-black robes that covered it from head to foot. Underneath the black cowl of the hood, scarlet pinpoints of light shone, matching the light from the torches. It was from underneath this hood that the spitting noises came, directed at the enormous snake that slid along the stone floor in figure eights, the papery rustling of its scales the only other sound apart from the hissing. 

Abruptly, all was quiet. The hissing ceased, and the snake stopped circling. 

Long white hands appeared from underneath the robes sleeves and pulled back the hood. The face of the figure was revealed. A face to rival any nightmarish denizen of hell that may have inhabited the oily shadows. The skull-like countenance, thesmooth, ivory-white skin stretched over knife-sharp cheekbones, the slitted nostrils, the nose so flat it was almost a nub of skin pointing out of the face. And the eyes. Those scarlet, hellish eyes.

The creature (for this was no man, not anymore) smiled slowly, revealing sharp, white teeth and purple gums. The smile was for the sounds he could hear in the passageway beyond the room. The smile was for the feelings and emotions he could sense radiating off his followers as they trudged towards his door. The feelings of subservience, admiration….and bone-chilling fear. 

An intense fear was radiating off one individual in particular, who seemed to be struggling….that much he could sense. The smile grew wider. He hissed to the snake so it could understand: "Ah my sweet Nagini, it seems my men are not so stupid after all. I apologise once again; you will not get your promised rat."

The snake almost pouted, if a snake can pout, and hissed back to the creature on the throne. After cocking his head, he hissed back: "Not to worry. You will be fed tonight…who knows, it may be even more appetising…" and throwing back his hideous head, he laughed, the sound like an icy wind blowing through a snow storm. 

The footsteps stopped and, hesitantly, there came a tapping upon the heavy door.

The monstrous creature on the throne lazily waved a hand at it, and it swung open noiselessly to reveal a group of white-masked, huddled men in the same black robes that covered their master. The men filed one-by-one into the room, slowing when they came to stand some metres from the throne. The last two men struggled in, dragging a large, moving bundle that thrashed and squirmed as if possessed. As they moved further in, the other men formed a large semi-circle around the throne; some fidgeted nervously while the bundle was dumped unceremoniously at the feet of their master.  

One of the men who had dragged the bundle removed his mask. A pale, acerbically pointed face, topped by slicked-back, platinum blond hair was revealed, a lazy, satisfied smirk upon the thin lips.  

"My Lord, we have found the coward," he intoned, looking more satisfied by the second. 

Lord Voldemort's mirthless smile remained fixed upon his face. "And where is the traitor, Lucius?"

Lucius Malfoy's smirk quickly disappeared. "Master….he is too well protected. Dumbledore…."

Voldemort rose so rapidly the movement could not be discerned - one moment he was sitting, the next he was in front of Malfoy, his sinister features close to his minion's trembling face.   

"Never, _never_ use that accursed name as an excuse for your incompetence. Do you understand me, _Malfoy_?" His eyes burned brighter, seemingly looking into what was left of Malfoy's soul. 

Malfoy twitched and grimaced, humiliated and absolutely terrified. "N-no, my Lord. Never."

Voldemort sighed, viewing Malfoy's fright almost piteously. "No matter, Lucius. You know I never said to bring back Snape. You know where he is, however?"   

Malfoy once more hesitated. "M-my Lord, as far as we know he is at Hogwarts. He has no other home that we know of….." he trailed off.

Voldemort sighed again, bringing his face even closer to Malfoy's. "So, what you are saying is…_you do not know?_"

Malfoy forced himself to meet the searing scarlet eyes with his grey ones. "Not exactly, Master, no." With a bang and a flash of green light he was propelled into the air, slamming into the wall with a sickening crunch. He slid to the floor where he lay dazed. 

No one went to help him. The other men gazed, petrified, at their master, who had risen to his full height, eyes blazing hotter than ever, one hand clutching a long, thin wand which still pointed at Malfoy's crumpled form, the incantation having barely passed from his grey lips.  

"You have disappointed me, Lucius. Greatly." He glared at the rest of the men. "You have _all_ disappointed me. And you have the nerve to consider yourself Death Eaters. You are not worthy of the mark, NONE OF YOU!" The last words were roared, the high-pitched, glacial tones transformed. 

He seemed then to collect himself, the wand disappearing as fast as it had been produced. He looked down at the now still bundle before him, as if seeing it for the first time.  

"Well well well, now, what do we have here?" Dulcet tones barely disguised the menacing mockery behind his voice. Sitting back on his throne, he waved his hand at the other man who had dragged the bundle in. "Wormtail, be so kind as to uncover my gift. And Lucius, get up. You look pathetic."

The man called Wormtail hastily stepped up to the now shivering bundle and, revealing a hand that looked to be made from pure, moving silver from beneath his robes, grasped the cloth and ripped it away. Underneath was the quivering form of a man, curled into a foetal ball, his short silver hair sticking up in all directions, a messy goatee beard standing out in sharp relief to the heavy stubble on the rest of his face. His skin was pale and his eyes were wide, fixed upon the creature he had once pledged allegiance to. He began to snivel as the red eyes bored into him.

"Lucius, I apologise," Voldemort remarked amusedly to Lucius Malfoy, who had picked himself off the ground and was limping back to the semi-circle of Death Eaters. "Did I say you looked pathetic? It seemed I was wrong. Now _this_, my friends,is _truly _pathetic."   

As the other Death Eaters sniggered appreciatively, the whimpering ball of humanity on the stone floor started quaking when Voldemort once again pulled out his wand from his sleeve, slowly this time, running it between his pale fingers and pausing to flick the tip with yellowed nails. "Welcome back, Igor. I trust you have been well?"

Igor Karkaroff cringed at the icy voice, his eyes stretching wider. He struggled to his knees and started shuffling towards the throne. "Master….master…forgive me….let me explain…." He whimpered in a thin, reedy voice.

"Forgive?" Voldemort mused, as Karkaroff stopped at his feet. "Forgiveness….." his voice trailed off as Karkaroff bent his neck even further, forehead to the floor in supplication.  

"You would beg for forgiveness, Igor?" he went on, seemingly oblivious to the trembling man in front of him, and the nervous twitching of the men around him, all laughter forgotten. They had seen their master play with prey before, and had heard his voice become this distant….before he had made the prey realise their worst nightmares. "What is there to forgive, my _faithful_ _servant_?" Voldemort sneered.

It was not possible for a man to tremble more than Karkaroff was. He tried to speak, but only a croak issued from the depths of his throat. Clearing it, he whispered, "I am sorry Master. I am sorry, so, so sorry…."

"_How_ sorry are you, Igor?" Voldemort leaned forward and slid one long finger underneath the bowed chin and forced it up, meeting Karkaroff's petrified eyes with his own crimson orbs. "What would you do to show your Master just how _sorry_ you are? And, come to think of it, what are you sorry _for_? Hmm?"

Karkaroff finally found his voice, and it rose hysterically as he shrieked: "Sorry enough to…..anything Master…anything! Please! Forgive me! I was a coward, I did not fulfill my destiny, I betrayed you…." 

"_Yessss…_" hissed Voldemort suddenly, the eyes burning with malice. "Not only me, but also your family…..not only that, you dared to run. _You dared to ignore the burning of the Mark, you had the audacity to run away…_"

Suddenly, as if controlled by a puppet master pulling strings, Karkaroff's back straightened and his neck was elongated as he rose slowly from the floor into the air. He gasped and struggled against the invisible force holding him there as his face started to turn red. Spluttering and kicking wildly, he clawed at his throat as if invisible fingers were choking him. 

All eyes were upon the Master as he looked intensely at the jerking, airborne marionette that was Karkaroff. "When I returned from the hell that was my existence," he commented almost conversationally, "I told those brave enough to return that I wanted repayment for thirteen years of neglect. That there could be no forgiveness until this debt had been fulfilled. My dear Igor, these were the men that _returned_."  

He waved his wand at Karkaroff, who started to spin around slowly, still clutching at his throat. "And now here you _hang_," he snickered evilly, "asking me to forgive you after _running away_. I am _sorry_," he spat sarcastically, "but there is no such thing as a second chance."  

The wand that had been waving idly at the revolving figure suddenly issued another flash of green light and Karkaroff's flailing body rushed up to the ceiling, his head hitting the masonry with a solid thump, then crashing down to the ground, before rising again into mid air. Choked screams issued forth as he began to spin faster and faster, until he was just a blur. Then, he fell out of the air, still spinning wildly, his feet hitting the ground solidly and held there as if gripped by invisible hands, as his body continued rotate. The sound of bones breaking filled the air as his legs collapsed underneath him, and a shattering scream followed as Karkaroff stared at the sight of his ruined limbs, both sticking out underneath him at unnatural angles, splintered bone sticking out of his skin. He took a deep shuddering breath and screamed again, the sound echoing off the walls.

Voldemort laughed, and rasing his wand, intoned, "_Crucio!_"

As Karkaroff writhed on the floor in agony, blood from his injuries smearing the floor, the Death Eaters looked on. Lucius Malfoy was observing the scene with typical coldness and detachment, having recovered his dignity. The other men were still masked, therefore their expressions were not revealed to him, though Voldemort sensed their fear and nausea, smelt it as a sweet stench. Wormtail's chest rapidly rose and fell, close to hyperventilation.

"Let this be a lesson to you all." Voldemort said quietly. "Let there be no mistake. You deserve this as well…..and more. Be grateful that this does not befall you. Not just the Cruciatus Curse, my friends. Oh no. I have something special in store for this…..filth."

Waving his wand, he ended Karkaroff's torture. The man ceased his writhing and lay back on the stones, his breath coming in hitches. 

"I will give you a chance, Igor," Voldemort's voice was suddenly kind. "I know you would do anything to make this up to me."

Karkaroff started sobbing, his gratitude apparent on his ruined face. "Oh Master, anything, I promise! You are merciful…"

"Am I?" some of the coldness returned to the high voice. "We shall see. If you can stand and walk to me Igor, I may consider giving you the gift of your miserable life back."

Quickly silenced gasps came from the throng. Looking at his mangled legs, everyone knew there was no way he could walk. Even if he had had his wand, he wouldn't have been able to mend his bones that quickly, assuming he knew any medicinal magic at all. 

Karkaroff's tears of pain and hopelessness kept running down his cheeks, as he tried to push himself up onto his knees. As pressure was applied to his ruined legs, he screamed once again, as though he was once more under Cruciatus. He tried to rise, and could not; every time the weight came to rest on his lower limbs, they collapsed underneath his body, prompting more ear-shattering shrieks of pain. Sweat and tears seemed to drench his body as the effort made him weaker and weaker. "Master…" he gasped, holding out his arm pitifully to Voldemort. "Please….it is unbearable…" and let out another long, wrenching scream as his crushed legs failed him once more.  

Voldemort observed Karkaroff's despair and agony with amusement until finally, he said, "That is enough Igor. We have much to discuss tonight and we are becoming impatient. Are we not?" he asked his followers. Quick nods and noises of assent ensued as Karkaroff collapsed for the last time, his face finally crumbling as he totally lost control, sobbing hysterically.

Voldemort stepped up once more to Karkaroff. "You have made your last empty promise, and spoken you last lie, Igor. You shall not fail me again." He raised his wand, pointed it at Karkaroff, and quietly murmured, "_Imperio._"

Karkaroff's sobbing stopped. He raised his head, cocked it as if listening for instructions from an unheard voice. He slowly got to his feet, shattered bones creaking in protest as his weight came upon them. But he did not waver, or sway, though the sweat beads the size of marbles were forcing their way out of his pores and his legs were shivering as though caught in a violent storm. 

He made no sound when the index finger of his left hand drove itself into his left eye with a dull pop, working its way into his eye socket.

He did not protest as his own finger gouged out his right eye. 

As blood poured down his face, he opened his mouth as if to scream, but he could not make a sound. Blood trickled past his lips, down his throat, where it gurgled as the muscles in his throat twitched in silent shrieks.

And still Voldemort kept his wand raised.  

Most of the Death Eaters watched in fascination and disgust. Many of them had tortured helpless Muggles and wizards, but never like this. Malfoy was the only one with no expression on his face as he watched proceedings with detached interest. Wormtail was openly gagging, his human hand underneath his mask, pressed against his mouth, his shoulders heaving as he fought back his nausea.  

"Finding it a bit difficult are we, Wormtail?" Voldemort jeered the man. "Vomit and _your_ punishment will make this look like a slap on your flabby backside. Learn to be strong, you pathetic fool!" he snarled. Wormtail swallowed raggedly, and gasped, taking deep breaths. When he tried to avert his eyes beneath the mask, somehow Voldemort knew. "Do not _dare_ to look away, or you _will_ regret having sought me out, Wormtail. I promise you."

Voldemort turned back to Karkaroff, who was still standing and working his fingers back and forth into his ragged sockets. He raised his wand, breaking the spell.

As Karkaroff collapsed once again, he found his voice. Spluttering and coughing up the swallowed blood, his tortured screams and wails filled the chamber. Any vestige of sanity he had held was now gone. 

"Would you rather die now than have that second chance, Igor?" Voldemort sneered. But Karkaroff could not answer, for he could not hear, could not fathom anything but his own agony. Laughing coldly, Voldemort pointed his wand at the ruined man on the floor, and muttering "_Silencio,_" Karkaroff's cries were silenced. "I think we'll let you learn your lesson a bit more, eh? _Crucio!_"

As Karkaroff writhed silently upon the floor, he sat back on his throne and faced his followers. "What you see before you is how I want Potter," he said softly, hatred dripping from each syllable like poison. "I want him lying on this floor before me, eviscerated but still breathing. I want him cursing my name and begging me for death. It is unfinished business now. I want him to damn his parents for having the amorous urge that created him!" 

He breathed hard, his eyes shining like fire, lips curled back into a silent snarl. Members of the Death Eater contingent were silent, hanging on his every word, trying not to look at the bloodied figure thrashing about on the floor, or the massive snake sliding around it.

Finally, one stepped forward. "Master," he murmured, "to get hold of the boy, we would need an insider. One such as Bartemius."

"Yessss.." Voldemort mused, his fingers lightly stroking his shiny chin. "Hopefully one more effective than poor Bartemius. If not for that loyal Dementor silencing him, he would be spilling secrets as we speak." He looked around at the men. "Very good suggestion, Macnair. The question is, who?"

"Lord," Lucius Malfoy limped up beside Macnair. "My son Draco is a loyal supporter, I am sure he would jump at the chance to bring the boy down."

"Yes, Lucius, this is true. However, he also has not learnt to hold his tongue. The big mouth on your sprog has let all be known that he is a Muggle-hater. However honourable this may be, it is also very stupid if attending a school run by that disgrace of a wizard who fills its halls with common Mudbloods. Potter is not stupid. Neither is Dumbledore for that matter. Your son will not be able to get near him without arousing suspicion."  

One hulking Death Eater tentatively edged himself beside Lucius Malfoy. "My Lord, my son is not as well known to the Potter boy. He and I would be proud to perform this service to your Lordship, so very proud."

Voldemort sighed. "I thank you for your offer, Goyle. But there is one problem. Your son is a moron. One day he will be an effective soldier for our side, but he hasn't an intelligent bone in his body. That goes for the fruit of your loins too, Crabbe," he said to another man of equal proportions who still held his rank in the semi-circle.  

Leaning back into the throne, Voldemort murmured almost to himself, "No, I have another in mind. No one, not even that meddling fossil Dumbledore, would suspect this man. After all, a squib is hardly noticed at the best of times, is he?"

The Death Eaters muttered confusedly amongst themselves, as Voldemort appeared deep in thought. "A squib?" They asked, turning to each other.

Malfoy stepped closer, truly intrigued. "A squib, my Lord? You mean….the caretaker?"

Voldemort gave Malfoy a withering stare. "Do you know of any other squib that would be allowed into a school for witchcraft and wizardry? Then again, Dumbledore being the champion of plebs that he is, you never know…." He trailed off, smiling at his own joke, his eyes and wand remaining on the still-writhing form of the tortured Karkaroff.   

"Master, he is indebted to the crooked-nosed fool. What could make him betray the boy?" Malfoy asked.

"Oh, never you mind Lucius. I shall make him a very attractive offer. One he shall not be able to refuse."

Voldemort rose once more and raised his wand, breaking the connection between it and Karkaroff, who lay facedown, shuddering. Looking down disgustedly at the man, he shook his head.  

"Just think, Igor. If you had not fled your destiny, you might have been the one to bring Potter here. There he was, under your nose for months. Yet you did nothing. Just hid behind your carefully constructed disguise. Well, now we see you for what you truly are." Pointing his wand at Karkaroff, he made the body turn so the Death Eaters could see his wreck of a face, covered in dried blood, gaping dark holes where his eyes once sat, his lips pulled over his teeth in a rictus of pain as drool slowly worked its way into his beard. "Gah.." he uttered, unable to form a coherent word.

Voldemort looked up at the semi-circle. "Never forget this, my Death Eaters. For I do not." 

"No master…."

"Of course not…"

"We are your humble servants…"  

As their murmuring platitudes continued, Voldemort looked back at what was once Igor Karkaroff, now just a bundle of flesh, skin and bones with no thoughts, he said, "Do not think I will be merciful, even in your death. Nagini! Come, beloved. You have been so patient, now you will be rewarded."

The snake slid forward, to Karkaroff's feet. Its massive head reared up and its jaws opened widely, revealing long fangs dripping poison to the floor, which sizzled as it hit the ground. Unhinging its jaws, it scooped up the feet and crunched down, as it proceeded to work its way up Karkaroff's body, devouring him alive.

Through the horrific screams that came from the dying throat, Voldemort's icy voice could be clearly heard. "Remember Nagini, leave the head. It is a present for a special someone…."


	2. Chapter 2

****

**FORCED HAND**

**Chapter 2**

****

Ron awoke, startled out of his deep sleep by a pillow-muffled scream. Rubbing his eyes, he peered over the side of his bed and saw the dark shape of his friend, Harry Potter, writhing and gasping in his sleep on his mattress on the floor. He groped for his wand lying on his bedside table, cursing aloud as he almost dropped it in his haste. He muttered, "_Lumos_" and saw more clearly Harry's struggling form, the sheets wrapped around him in a tight embrace that appeared to be strangling him.

_What do I do? Do I wake him up? He might choke himself! _Ron thought frantically as Harry's moans increased in pitch. Ron shuddered. Whatever the dream was that was coursing through Harry's sleeping brain, it must have been a real doozy. 

Of course, Ron had heard him do this before. In the Gryffindor boys' dorm at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, occasionally Harry would occasionally yell in his sleep, and even though the plaintive shouts were muffled by the thick hangings of the four-poster bed he slept in, they were terrible sounds nonetheless. Ron was a heavy sleeper and had only heard him once or twice; in those occasions, the shouts being so horrible that they would rouse him from his log-like slumber. Like now. He was reminded of the dreams Harry had had before Voldemort returned, which he had insisted were only dreams. However, unlike Trelawney's half-baked ramblings, Harry's dreams had turned out to be ominously predictive. And now, he was dreaming again.

Suddenly Harry gave one more strangled yelp and seemed to be jolted from his sleep, his eyes flying open before he struggled to an upright position, wide awake and sweaty. He clutched the damp sheets and gasped soundlessly, as though trying to scream.

Ron shoved his sheets off and jumped to Harry's side. "What is it, mate? What did you dream? Harry? _Harry!_" He took hold of his friend's heaving shoulder and shook it roughly.

"Voldemort…" Harry wheezed, his eyes wide, the whites shining in the light provided by Ron's wand. Moisture glistened on Harry's forehead, and the look on his face was vaguely reminiscent of Ginny's tortured features after she woke from one of the many nightmares she suffered following her entrapment in that awful chamber. Harry's face did seem childlike now, especially without his glasses. The torment apparent in his eyes, however, was of an intensity no child should ever know. 

No _one_ should ever know.

"Hey Harry, it's okay…" Ron awkwardly rubbed Harry's shoulder, trying to calm him down. He felt at a total loss. What did you do when your best friend was falling to pieces in front of you? "You can tell me, mate. What did you dream?"

Harry had calmed down fractionally, but when he spoke, the tremor in his voice betrayed his fright. "I saw Voldemort, Ron. He…he killed Karkaroff. Voldemort….he…God…." Harry trailed off, shaking his head, a bead of perspiration hanging from his lower lip, which was separated from the top one in a horrified grimace. "He said….he wanted me dead. Voldemort said he was going to get me…"

All through Harry's disjointed explanation, Ron kept wincing at the sound of the name being spoken aloud. Yes, it _was _silly to think that a name could harm you, but growing up with the hushed repetition of "You-Know-Who" certainly drilled it home to the young witch or wizard that his true name personified evil, and was not to be voiced. Ever. He still remembered Fred being slapped hard by his mother when the name was said in defiance, as if daring her to react. And she had, with more fire than he had ever seen.

"Did…You-Know-Who say how?" Ron asked hesitantly.

Harry's face screwed up even more, until it was barely recognisable. "I…can't remember. But the snake….the snake ate Karkaroff. Alive. Shit…." 

Ron kept rubbing Harry's damp shoulder, but more and more distractedly as confused thoughts whirled in his head. Tendrils of panic started to work their way through his mind, worried for Harry and the nonsense he seemed to be spouting. _A snake ate Karkaroff? Come on!_

But for some reason, Ron believed him. Maybe it was because his own parents were even now on secret business for Dumbledore, business which had not been divulged to Ron or any of his siblings. Maybe it was because Harry's dreams seemed to be portents of coming evil.

And maybe _this_ dream, whatever it was, would also come true.

"Hey, c'mon mate," he said briskly, getting up on his haunches and putting out a hand for Harry to grasp. "Let's go get some hotcocoa. I'd conjure up a cup, but, you know, the whole decree thing…"

But Harry was having none of it. "No!" he exclaimed. "I have to write to Dumbledore… he'll know what to do…I should tell him…"

With that, Harry jumped up from his rumpled sheets and stumbled to his trunk. Fumbling with the clasp, he opened it and shakily withdrew some parchment, a quill and some ink. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he quickly began to scribble his note to Albus Dumbledore, a look of intense concentration upon his face. He was so immersed in his task that he did not see Hermione quietly open the door and lookin worriedly. Somehow, she had known something was amiss. Ron swiftly got up and crossed over to her; Harry didn't notice whenhe quietly slipped out of the room into the passageway beyond, speaking in hushed tones to his other best friend.

Meanwhile, Harry kept writing. 

_Dear Professor Dumbledore,_

_This may be nothing. I don't want to worry you, but I had a dream. I know, it seems ridiculous, but last year the same thing happened. I dreamed things last year that showed Voldemort before he got his body back, and they all seemed so vivid. I know he killed an old Muggle, and I know Wormtail was with him…so I think this latest dream is true as well. I saw him in a room…I don't know where. But Lucius Malfoy and Wormtail brought him Igor Karkaroff, and Voldemort killed him. Slowly. I dreamt it all. I think I heard him talking about me, but I'm not sure, all I could see was Karkaroff tortured, and under Cruciatus. He might have mentioned a squib, I'm not sure. I don't know, all I know is that I woke up just as Karkaroff was being eaten alive by Voldemort's snake. My scar was hurting really badly, it still is. I really don't know why I'm writing this to you now, there's not much you can do probably. I just wanted to let you know, and I didn't want to tell Sirius because he'll just come back and make himself a target like he did last year_………

*****

………_I just hope you can make sense of it. Sorry if I bothered you._

_Harry Potter_

Albus Dumbledore slowly lowered the parchment and stared. He did not seem to be looking at anything in particular. He peered past the weird and wonderful contraptions hissing, whirling and spinning on tables and shelves, past the portraits of past Headmasters of Hogwarts. Into the depths of his memories, some of them pleasant, some of them abhorrent, most tainted with a bitter mix of melancholy and regret. For even though a Pensieve is a willing receptacle, it can only dilute the strength of one's memories, not drain them completely. _And by Merlin_, Dumbledore thought sadly, _if anyone could use an _Obliviate _at the moment, it would be me_. 

His life had been interesting. He could not deny that. Yet, what was that curse an old Chinese Muggle had once uttered? Ah yes. "May you live in interesting times."

Yes, these times could be described in many ways. _Interesting_ was one of them. And they threatened to become even more _interesting_ as his enemy, the former Tom Marvolo Riddle, regained his strength, his command, and his followers. While the Ministry denied the existence of the reincarnated Voldemort, his most ardent followers were locked in a place guarded by the filthiest spectres imaginable, who would not hesitate to unlock the cages and let loose those followers, if onlytheir own insatiable desire for souls could be met without fetter. And now, it seemed, the boy who had been the downfall of the dark wizard, years before, was so directly linked to him that he dreamed of him _while he was at his most vile. _And the boy acting like a conduit seemed the only way in which Dumbledore, or any of the camp that had aligned themselves with him against the corrupt Cornelius Fudge and his ineffectual Ministry, could spy on the Death Eater inner circle, if indeed that was what Harry had seen. 

Oh yes, these were _interesting_ times, no doubt about that.

What was even more _interesting _was that Dumbledore was afraid. 

He had hardly ever been afraid in his long life. Yes, he had felt _fear_ in the heat of battle with Grindelwald's minions, but that had been tempered by the flush of justice and his fierce belief that _the light would win_. He had been protected by powerful forces he had barely understood, and struggled to comprehend even now, fifty years later. Now, when he tried to channel those forces, those beliefs that had once held him and his battle-mates in good stead, all he felt was coldness. And the fear. _This hopeless, all-consuming fear._

And it wasn't just fear of the unknown, although that _was_ part of it. It wasn't just that Voldemort alone had the potential to make the work of Grindelwald and his Muggle conspirator Hitler pale into comparison. It wasn't only the dreams he had in which Tom Riddle appeared before him, his Head Boy badge shining macabrely along with the mad glint in his eye, before the eyes became slits that glowed red fire, his mouth opening to allow an impossibly enormous serpent to stretch past his now thinning lips, itsbasilisk-like fangs spilling venom as it flew towards his throat. And all the while Tom sneeringly saying, "Old Fossil, your time is going to come," even as the snake continued to rapidly force itself out of the orifice he was speaking from. 

Even though these dreams woke him up and had him retching occasionally, this was not what frightened Dumbledore the most.

No. It was fear of himself. Fear of what he was capable of doing. Of** b**ecoming. For while his intentions were good, and always had been, the consequences of his actions had come back to haunt him before. And he had to tread carefully if he were to avoid making the sort of mistakes that had nearly cost the wizarding world its very soul, just a few short years ago. 

Harry Potter was powerful. Everyone in the wizarding populace who had a memory longer than what they had consumed for lunch knew that. When he was a baby, he had inadvertently transformed a deity-like evil into nothing more than a wraith, doomed to inhabit the lowest animals for physicality. And the lowest form of human. 

At age eleven, Harry had faced this evil again. And at age twelve. And again, just after the Tri-Wizard tournament. If it were a story, it would have been horribly clichéd, yet unfortunately it was far from fiction. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, had faced his personal demon more times than anyone had a right to, andyet he had continued to live.

The raw, untamed power was strong in him.

And Dumbledore had to battle the urge to take advantage of this elemental force. 

But it would help the cause. So much….

_NO! He is not ready_, he thought to himself furiously._ Yes, he will know why James and Lily were murdered. And sooner rather than later. You should have told him from the very start. But you CANNOT and WILL NOT force him into anything by emotional blackmail, you old fool._

Sighing, he reached for his quill. A beautiful phoenix feather, kindly donated by Fawkes, just before his descent into the ugliness that afflicted him nearer his Burning Days. He cast an affectionate glance at his old friend, who was currently sitting on his perch, snoozing blissfully. _Ah Fawkes_, he thought wistfully. _If I could but for one moment savour some of your peace. How lucky you are_.

He shook his head slowly, clearing it of the pensive cobwebs that seemed to manifest far more regularly these days than had been allowed in the past. He smiled ruefully. _Getting slow in the head as well, Albus? Yes, yes, I am mad as a harpy, having a conversation in my addled brain with me and myself. Oh, and Fawkes. He's not mad though. Then again, he has put up with me and my dementia all these years._

Chuckling to himself, he was about to reach for a fresh sheet of parchment when he heard the stairs outside his office door start their slow, stony upward grinding (_Ah! Nothing wrong with your hearing yet, old man. At least THAT isn't going anywhere!_), which meant someone was coming to visit. He hoped it was good news. A cup of tea and some jam tarts from Minerva wouldn't go astray either.

He could live in hope.

There was a knock upon the door, and Dumbledore waved his wand at it, almost idly. As it swung open, his half-hearted wish sank even further into the depths of "a-fairy's-chance-in-a-Muggle-blender" type scenario. The tarts _and _the hope for good news. 

For he rarely got good news from Severus Snape nowadays. And he certainly never received home-baked treats from him, either. 

"Headmaster," Snape said briefly in his whisper-like voice, before he strode towards Dumbledore's desk. In his hands he carried a bundle of black cloth, which Dumbledore eyed warily. Looking up at Snape, he saw that the man was trying to keep his composure. However, his crow-like eyes were darting back and forth, and he was holding his bundle away from his body as though it were a dangerous artefact which was liable to explode. His hands were shaking slightly, like boughs caught in a breeze. 

In short, Snape was more distressed than Dumbledore had ever seen him.

"Severus. What is wrong?"

A ghost of a smirk touched Snape's lips. "Am I that easy to read, Headmaster?"

"Rest assured, Severus, at times you are as inscrutable as a centaur. However, this is not one of those times." Leaning back in his chair, Dumbledore stared into the other man's eyes, saying nothing. Waiting for Snape to drop his bombshell.

Snape shifted uncomfortably, and then unceremoniously dumped the cloth-covered object onto the desk. It landed with a _thump_, like….a skull hitting a hard surface.

Dumbledore inwardly shuddered. He had a horrible feeling that this was….

"This arrived for me a few minutes ago," Snape said. "_Special owl_" he added with a trace of sarcasm. "Took two of them to fly with it. Then they were off without so much as a by-your-leave." He pulled out a stiff parchment card, which he handed to the older wizard.

Dumbledore peered at the flowery calligraphy. Four words, in deceptively beautiful script, read: 

_We do not forget._

Dumbledore fingered the edges of the card. Flakes of what was obviously dried blood peeled off the sides and fluttered to the desktop like dandruff. Without another word Snape reached forward with his trembling hands and pulled the shroud off the object.

Dumbledore sucked in a sudden breath. Yes, it was as he had imagined. As bad as he had imagined.

As bad as Harry had dreamt. Had _seen_.

"Igor…." He murmured at the head. The empty eye cavities seemed to glare at him in reproach. The tongue, bloated and blue, protruded from the blood-caked lips, pointing at him in a grotesque parody of a child's taunt. His beard, once coiffed to peaked perfection, now pillowed the chin like a bizarre bloody mop.

"He was so proud of his beard," Dumbledore muttered inanely. 

"The message was in his mouth," Snape offered unnecessarily.

"Yes, Severus, I can imagine," the Headmaster commented dryly. Sighing, he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes in a futile effort to ease the weariness that suddenly shot through his body and soul. "I imagine this was a warning," he said, just as unnecessarily.

"I imagine so, Headmaster," returned Snape, the slightest tremor in his voice. He hesitated, then blurted out, in a most un-Snape-like manner "surely, _surely_ this will prove to that fool that this is really happening? That he is alive and well and _out there?_"

"What will it prove?" Dumbledore slowly pushed back his chair and stood, meeting eye to eye with Snape. "That Karkaroff met with an untimely demise? Certainly. That he was killed by Lord Voldemort? No. You know it was he, I know it was he, and every sensible witch or wizard that can see past the propaganda knows he has returned. However, all we have is a head. It is not enough to convince the inconvincible. Cornelius is lost to us, Severus. He will never listen. Not even when it is too late."

Snape stared at the Headmaster belligerently, desperately, before reluctant acceptance appeared in his eyes. "Yes, yes….I know." He sighed and sank into the chair facing Dumbledore. "It's just that…it's not just me I am worried about."

"I know," Dumbledore said kindly, before sitting down to face the other man. "We must prepare. Before the children return, we must prepare. Before Harry comes back, we must be ready."

Snape's features briefly twisted into a look of extreme distaste before he forced them back into their normal frowning repose. "What role will the Potter boy play, Headmaster? I know you have tried to protect him in the past…not that he has appreciated this-"

"Severus," Dumbledore intoned warningly, "do not let your emotions cloud your judgement. Your past is _not _Harry's fault."

"Yes, I know," Snape automatically chanted. Unconvincingly. "Well, what do you plan to tell him?"

"The truth," Dumbledore said softly. "The whole truth. As to his role, fate will decide. I refuse to decide for him. It is not, and never was, my say. And that is the way it should be…..." 


End file.
